Gabriel paused, frowning. Ice-maiden formidable. Julia had the impression a lot of it was theatre, like a gypsy's crystal ball. Overawing the superstitious peasants.

"A Trojan program. It's indexed as an ordinary factory-quota update, but once inside your filters it multiplies like a hot rabbit, expanding to take up all the available memory capacity."

"When?"

"If it happens, it'll be some time on Tuesday morning. Of course, the nearer we get to the event the more specific I can get; and I can also give you more accurate odds."

"I want to know every change, m'dear. No matter what time of the day or night, you get in contact with me whenever those odds shift."

"Can't you tell us who sends the Trojan?" Julia asked plaintively.

"I'm sorry. Wherever the origin of the attack is, it's not close to Wilholm."

Julia sat back and sighed wanly.

"Whoever they are, they seem determined," Greg said thoughtfully.

"It has to be a personal vendetta," Julia said. "That means Kendric's behind it, and the mole exists, doesn't it?"

"Possibly," Greg said. He seemed strangely reluctant to commit himself. But she knew. It was Kendric. She'd always known. There was almost a feeling of contentment accompanying the conviction.

"I'd like you to get some of your security programmers hooked into the Event Horizon datanet," Greg said. "See if they can backtrack the hotrods if this second attack does happen."

"Good idea, boy. I'll get Walshaw on it."

Greg and Gabriel rose. He gave Julia an encouraging smile. "Don't worry, it's just a question of waiting to see which lead takes us to the organiser. After tomorrow's interviews our options should be clear enough to start making some headway."

She couldn't draw as much comfort from his words as she would've liked. The promises were too vague. But at least he was trying to help her, some part of him cared.

The two of them departed, leaving her alone in the study with the feverishly active memories of a dead man, and the hot rain swatting the window.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Half-past two in the morning found Greg lying on his back, hands behind his head, staring up at the blackness which hid the bedroom ceiling. He could hear the reservoir's wavelets swishing on the shore outside.

The deer had come to drink under cover of the night, venturing out of the new persimmon plantation at the back of Berrybut spinney. His fading espersense perceived their minds as small cool globes of violet light, timid and alert. Eleanor had been entranced with them for the first couple of weeks after she'd moved in, waiting up each night to see them slip furtively out of the trees.